


Secondhand Smoke

by mugenmine



Series: NewSub!John Headspace [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bondage, Developing Relationship, Kink Meme, Kissing, M/M, Power Dynamics, Rope Bondage, Shotgunning, Sub!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-12
Updated: 2012-10-12
Packaged: 2017-11-16 04:15:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/535375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mugenmine/pseuds/mugenmine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John was warmed up now and ready, desperate to say yes, to come up for air only when Sherlock hauled him to the surface. He stared at the gag held before his mouth, knowing that once he took it, he could finally let himself be overwhelmed. He wanted this, Sherlock’s lips on his skin, fingers and teeth and tongue, but he wanted Sherlock’s mouth against his own far more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Secondhand Smoke

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anjali_didier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anjali_didier/gifts).



> This is the fourth story in the NewSub!John Headspace Series. It reads as a standalone, but events from the first story [A Study in Frustration](http://archiveofourown.org/works/351802) and the third story [Bespoke](http://archiveofourown.org/works/448674/chapters/768511) are referenced.

Dreams about sand and bullets and piecing together men had become rare. These nights John dreamt of stranger things. Endless doors and unknown masters, wandering blind through dark labyrinths, the ground cold beneath his feet. Tonight, he had dreamt that he was still in Tokyo, going round in a misplaced London Eye. Sherlock had stood with his back to him, taking an axe to the floor of the capsule. _It’s alright_ , Sherlock had said as metal struck against metal and the floor opened up beneath them. _I do know what I’m doing_. 

Usually he crashed out of nightmares, gasping like a drowning man. Tonight he awoke in stillness. He took in the familiar things, the heavy curtains blocking out the street light, the long, plastered-over crack across the ceiling, the wardrobe door that never closed all the way. All of this anchored him. 

He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them wide, making sure he wasn’t still asleep and that this wasn’t another one of his dreams in which Sherlock had tied him to the bed. No, he was positive that he was awake, and that Sherlock had in fact tied him to the bed. 

John tugged on the ropes around his wrists, turning over in his head what this meant now and wondering how he could’ve slept through being bound. He held a hazy memory, mixed up with the rest of his fading dreams, of Sherlock standing over him, rope gathered in his hands. _This is a dream,_ Sherlock had whispered as his gentle fingers had pulled through John’s hair, easing him back down below.

He was surprised that he could remain relaxed through this; that waking up and finding his arms stretched wide and his wrists lashed to the headboard hadn’t sent him into a panic. His ankles had been left free and he bent his knees and dug his heels into the mattress. He squinted past his pinioned arm at the digital clock on the bedside table. _3:50AM_.

He raised his head from the pillow as a shadow darkened his doorway.

“You’re awake,” Sherlock said. 

John tensed, the calmness in him fading at the sound of Sherlock’s voice. “Yes. I take it you couldn’t sleep?”

“I haven’t tried.”

John tracked Sherlock’s approach, searching for signs that he should be trying harder to get away. In the dark, Sherlock was made up of shadow and intent. John pulled against the ropes, half testing, half trying to free himself. Sherlock would start soon, and he wasn’t sure if he was ready. Even though his heart pounded, and his cock began to stir as he struggled, he still needed more time to bolt and buck and fight before Sherlock dragged him under.

Sherlock pulled open the heavy curtain and the street lights turned shadow into form as he shifted back into his dishevelled housebound self. Dressed in nothing but his grey pyjamas bottoms and blue dressing gown, it seemed as if Sherlock had left his own bed moments ago. He held a mug of tea in his hand and pulled absently at his hair, his attention focused on the street below.

The light chased away some of the mystery and intensity of the situation and it was just he and Sherlock again. John frowned, realising the embarrassing state he was in. His boxers were undone and half-way down his hips, the pale patch of hair and the tip of his cock well above the waistband. The sheets that were bunched at his back held him at an awkward angle, one hip higher than the other. At that moment he could have done with less light. 

Sherlock set the cup of tea on the bedside table and sat down beside him on the bed. He pulled a ball gag from his dressing gown pocket and John’s heart began to race. 

John had worn this one before, and he didn’t want to again. The ball had stretched his mouth painfully wide. He had choked on it until he figured out how to remain calm with it inside of him and breathe despite its presence. When Sherlock had pushed it into his mouth their first time, the gag had humbled and panicked and aroused him like nothing he’d ever experienced before. Just looking at it now made him pull inward and start to prepare himself to be overwhelmed. 

“Relax,” Sherlock said, “we haven’t started yet.”

John breathed through his nose, his jaw clenched and locked tight. Sherlock was wrong. They had started the moment he had woken up and found the rope around his wrists. He slowed his breath, trying to quell the anxiety, but his heart refused to comply.

John turned his wrists, trying to manoeuvre his fingers, and hook the ends of the rope. He growled, the knots always just out of reach. Sherlock knew how to keep him in place and how to frustrate him. The bastard had it down to a science, but he couldn’t help but notice that Sherlock had been gentle this time. The rope laid smooth against his skin, the coils layered from his wrist to the middle of his forearms, and the pressure remained even as he pulled. The first time Sherlock had ambushed and bound him, the coarse rope had left his wrists burned and bruised for days. 

“It’s almost four,” John said. “Don’t tell me you forgot about your… protocol already.” 

“I haven’t,” Sherlock said. “You agreed to this. Don’t you remember?” 

“No I, I didn’t-” John stopped, trying to play the day backwards and catch Sherlock out. 

His evening had consisted of Chinese take-away and mindless telly while Sherlock had scribbled in his notebook and wandered in and out of the kitchen. John’s day had been uneventful, lunch at his desk, morning and afternoon spent with patients. He pushed back further, recalling a hasty breakfast, scrambling through the flat searching for his ID, already ten minutes late. As he rushed towards the door, jacket on one arm, toast between his teeth, Sherlock had reached up from the sofa and muttered, _‘Will you give yourself to me?’_

John remembered saying something like, _‘Yeah, sounds good,’_ as he had shut the door, and then the day had become a blur and he had forgotten.

His alarm was set for 5:45AM and another long day stood like a wall ahead of him. But now, despite the fact that if Sherlock sat quietly enough, and stroked his hair gently enough, he might just slip back asleep, John couldn’t help but consider. And Sherlock had asked. 

Sherlock leaned against him, the small of his back pressed up against John’s hip. John wished Sherlock had left his dressing gown behind, and that he sat against him now, bare-chested, pyjama bottoms riding low on narrow hips, skin against skin. The image distracted him as he relaxed against the ropes, and he drifted, content in the moment. 

One by one, more practical thoughts, like what Sherlock might be hiding, and what might be done to him pulled John back. Once Sherlock asked the question, and John gave up his control, he would be gagged and made to endure it. But until then, he planned to probe.

“What did you bring?” John asked.

Sherlock pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes, an ashtray, and a silver lighter from his pockets and set them next to the ball gag. “Just a few necessities,” Sherlock said.

“That’s… all?” John squinted at the strange collection of objects. “Were you just going to smoke?” 

Sherlock tugged on the twisted sheets and John raised his hips and let Sherlock free the tangle from beneath his back. There was a lot he wanted to do; pull up and button his boxers to cover his growing erection, scratch the itch in the centre of his back, adjust the pillow beneath his head. John gasped, snapping back into focus as Sherlock dug his fingers into the tender skin below his hipbone. 

“No, not just smoke.” 

The touch sent a shock through his body and he bit his lip, hoping the pain would hold him in place. Over the weeks, Sherlock had been slowly discovering all of his trigger points and the points that made him flinch and shove Sherlock’s hand away or moan and lean into the touch. No matter how hard he braced for it, Sherlock always pulled a reaction from him. Sherlock’s cruel half-smile made his heart race and his stomach twist into knots, knowing what would come next, now that he was bound. 

“I was planning to silence you first,” Sherlock continued. “Then I was going to play with you for a while.” 

John closed his eyes and he hoped the room was dark enough that Sherlock couldn’t see the colour rising in his face. He wasn’t sure if it was the weight of Sherlock’s hand on his hip or the way Sherlock announced his intent that turned him on more. The thought of digging in and hanging on while Sherlock eased the reins of control from his white-knuckled fists made John turn his face away, embarrassed at how fucking desperately he wanted this. 

He struggled, even though he knew he wouldn’t be able to free himself. Wound up and growing nervous, he couldn’t do anything else. He focused on the slight smile and the dark stare, dreading and wanting for Sherlock to begin. 

Sherlock climbed onto John’s body and straddled his thighs, pinning John’s legs to the bed. He adjusted the ropes, tightening the knots and stretching John’s arms wider. “Try it now,” Sherlock said.

“Try what?” 

Sherlock leaned in close, his lips brushing against John’s ear. “Struggle like you know that if you don’t get away, I’m going to wind you up so tight that you won’t know whether to beg me to stop or beg me to let you come. Not that you’ll be able to do either, biting down on that ball.” 

John blinked, registering the command, and the challenge, and the threat, then he fought. He drove his elbows into the bed, and growled, unable to find leverage with his arms stretched so wide. He thrashed against the ropes and in the force of his fight he managed to lift his shoulders off the mattress, but he couldn’t get any further. He dug his heels into the bed and cursed and thrashed, trying to buck Sherlock from his legs and break free until Sherlock pushed him down. 

“That’s good enough,” Sherlock whispered. “You know you’re not going anywhere. You know I don’t play fair.”

John collapsed against the pillow, gasping. His wrists would be bruised from this, but he didn’t care. He needed the fight. His muscles twitched and burned and he was too riled up to just stop. He kept his fists locked tight as Sherlock pulled gently at his fingers. Even though he craved Sherlock’s touch instinct made him lock down. John exhaled and forced himself to relent and let Sherlock coax his hand open. Sherlock rewarded him with a kiss in the centre of his palm. 

“Now you’re properly spread out for me,” Sherlock said. 

John closed his eyes and followed the path of Sherlock’s mouth by sensation alone. The heat of Sherlock’s breath on his wrist, a flicker of tongue against his forearm, the scrape of teeth, just shy of a bite. He turned his face away as Sherlock bit the crook of his arm. He held his breath as Sherlock focused on the infuriating spot, thin skin caught painfully between sharp teeth, until he couldn’t bear any more and begged Sherlock to stop. Just for a moment to stop. 

Sherlock paused his assault and blew a cool stream onto John’s bruised skin and the sting began to fade. John lost himself in Sherlock’s slow progress through the patch of hair along his underarm and across the ridge of his collarbone. Sherlock gripped John by the chin and forced his head back to bare his throat. He drew a line up the side of John’s neck with his fingers and then retraced the path with his tongue.

“You’re all made up of sensitive parts,” Sherlock said, “and always so easily worked up.” 

Sherlock ran his fingernails down the length of John’s ribcage and John arched his back in the wake, unable to breathe until Sherlock’s hands came to a merciful stop at his hips. 

“Please,” John whispered, hoping his quiet plea would move Sherlock’s hands onto his cock. Sherlock continued to ignore him. 

“One night,” Sherlock began and there was menace in his voice. “You’re going to find yourself bound so tightly that you won’t be able to move an inch and silenced so soundly that there will be no fear of waking anyone around us, and I’m going to spend a considerable amount of time cataloguing all of the points that make you scream.” John tensed against his bindings, worked up by the threat and fighting the need to thrash as Sherlock’s fingers caressed his stomach. “Starting right here.” 

John kept his mouth shut tight, breathing fast through his nose, until Sherlock’s hand moved back to the centre of his chest. 

“We could get a taste of it tonight…” Sherlock reached for the ball gag. “Will you do this for me?” 

John was warmed up now and ready, desperate to say yes, to come up for air only when Sherlock hauled him to the surface. He stared at the gag held before his mouth, knowing that once he took it, he could finally let himself be overwhelmed. He wanted this, Sherlock’s lips on his skin, fingers and teeth and tongue, but he wanted Sherlock’s mouth against his own far more.

“No,” John said, and when the word left his lips his mind began to spin, because there needed to be so many more words after that one. He wasn’t sure if he had said it aloud or if Sherlock had even heard him or would listen. And for a terrible moment, he spiralled on what little he could do if Sherlock simply refused and forced the gag into his mouth. John searched Sherlock’s face, tracking the shift from confusion to concern.

Sherlock shoved the gag into the pocket of his dressing gown and began taking apart the knots at John’s wrist. 

“No,” John tried again, “I want to do this with you. My God, I want to but- I mean, if we’re going to do this-” He faltered, the moths awakening inside his stomach as he formed his scattered thoughts into words. “I don’t mind being kept quiet. But, this time, I want you to use your mouth.” 

Sherlock stopped. He let go of the rope and sat back onto John’s thighs.

“Will you do this for me?” John asked and the question took on more weight in his heart than he had expected. He’d spent his life being bold, and certain about so many things, but now something as simple as asking to be kissed sent him reeling, and he just wanted to get up and leave. But he couldn’t. He was trapped with his question, spread open wide while Sherlock just stared.

John knew the look. He knew when Sherlock pulled inside and turned over the things that needed to be picked apart and weighed and processed. He didn’t want to think of himself being run through the gauntlet of Sherlock’s consideration. He waited in silence. The world would not fucking end if Sherlock said no. Everything would simply be that much clearer and limits would be learnt. John set his jaw in a hard line and resigned himself. 

Sherlock eased a cigarette from the pack. He stared down, tapping the filter, his focus drawn to the object in his hands. Even in the dark John recognised the Japanese brand, the white label with the blue and gold archers bow across the front, the word HOPE in black letters below. Tonight the logo seemed less ironic and more embarrassing. _Don’t be a fool_ , he told himself, _Don’t be a fool_. 

“Yes,” Sherlock said.

The flame flashed bright and illuminated Sherlock’s sharp features. His pale eyes stayed half-closed as he inhaled. John stared at the flickering orange tip, and the rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest as he took the smoke deep into his lungs and then exhaled a pale stream into the dark.

After the cigarette was left to burn in the ashtray, Sherlock leaned down just out of reach and spread his hand wide over John’s heart, holding him in place. 

John held as still as he could, lost in the fact that the word had been yes. If he lifted his head from the pillow, he could reach Sherlock’s mouth and kiss him. He thought about that, as he closed his eyes, and Sherlock’s lips brushed against his own, barely a whisper of contact leaving nothing but the taste of smoke behind.

When John opened his eyes, Sherlock’s attention was fixed once more on his Tokyo cigarette. The smoke lingered between Sherlock’s lips before he breathed out. 

John readied himself. He closed his eyes and parted his lips before Sherlock leaned in. He tipped his head back, offering his mouth, Sherlock’s hand weighing against his chest. 

This time Sherlock traced the space between John’s lips with his tongue and pulled away.

One drag, one kiss, seemed to be the way of it. Not even a kiss. He hadn’t asked Sherlock for a kiss. Only for his mouth.

“I want to try something with you,” Sherlock said. 

John nodded, still distracted by Sherlock’s taste on his lips. He took it apart, cigarettes and toothpaste and tea and his own musky, sleepy scent; warmth that Sherlock had licked from his skin. 

Sherlock dragged deep on the cigarette, then closed his mouth onto John’s. 

John opened his eyes wide, not ready for it. He inhaled fast and filled up with smoke as he tried to take all of it in. He gasped against Sherlock’s mouth, unable to catch up. Tears blurred his vision in the dark. He turned his head away, coughing, unable to breathe.

“Christ-” John got out one word and set off another coughing fit. He’d covered his mouth with his hands, before he’d even registered that his wrists had been freed. Sherlock pushed him onto his side and John turned his face into the pillow, trying to slow his breath and calm the burn in his lungs. Sherlock’s hand stayed against his back until he settled.

Sherlock hauled John up and leaned him back against the headboard. John wiped his eyes, the severed rope uncoiling from his wrists. Their heated moment and his arousal well over. He breathed slowly, testing his lungs, waiting for another round of coughing. Sherlock placed the mug of tea in his hands. 

John knew what Sherlock had tried to do and wasn’t surprised that it had gone wrong. He’d shotgunned smoke before, albeit back when he was fifteen and at the hands and mouth of an older girl. She’d told him trading smoke was sexy and that he’d best learn how to get it right. With her mouth as a guide and her hands down his trousers John had been a quick and eager study. He’d mastered it after three tries and the rewards had been well worth his while. 

“When you do that,” John said. “You don’t have to push that hard. Let me take it from you.”

Sherlock gathered up the lengths of rope and the silence stretched out between them. John sipped his tea. Sherlock had cut it with too much milk and sugar but right now he didn’t mind. It soothed his throat and warmed his hands and he needed to pause for a moment before they started again. He hoped Sherlock wanted to start again. He set the tea back down and pulled up his boxers. He contemplated placing his hands onto Sherlock’s hips and slipping his fingers down below the waistband. That would get him bound to the bed fast. Sherlock had always shown precious little tolerance for being touched.

Sherlock took John’s wrist in his hand. “You should spread your arms wide now. I’m tying you to the bed.”

John did as he was told.

Everything seemed calmer now that he was sitting up, eye to eye with Sherlock. Sherlock had made sure that he wasn’t getting away. His arms stretched wide and secured by the wrists, the wood cold against his back. He leaned forward, pulling as hard as he could and barely managed to shift his shoulders away from the headboard. 

“I might have made it harder for you,” Sherlock said as John collapsed back. “But I don’t want you moving too much.” 

John stared at the abandoned cigarette, the tip reduced to half ash. Perhaps only enough left for one more go. He waited as Sherlock took another drag. 

With Sherlock just beyond his reach, and the smoke swirling ghost-like between his lips, John strained forward wanting nothing more than to take now. He pulled against the headboard, struggling to move closer, his shoulder starting to ache.

And Sherlock gave him an inch.

The exchange came slower this time. Sherlock’s mouth soft against his, smoke spilling out from between their lips. John lingered there, ignoring the growing burn in his chest and his need for air, craving so much more of Sherlock’s mouth. He bit Sherlock’s bottom lip, staking his claim as Sherlock pulled away, then choked out a cloud of smoke.

Sherlock touched the spot on his lip where John had taken more. “I believe you’re supposed to exhale,” he said.

John shuddered, blinking back the tears and struggling through another coughing jag. Sherlock held the tea to John’s lips and wiped the tears from the corners of his eyes. They sat quietly, Sherlock feeding him too sweet tea until his throat stopped aching and his lungs calmed. John glanced down at the cigarette, almost burned down to the filter. 

“One last try?” John asked.

Sherlock laughed. “Are you up for it? You’re not very good at this.”

“Neither are you.”

Sherlock took all that was left of the cigarette into his chest and John closed the gap. He stopped just before Sherlock, lips not quite touching. Sherlock exhaled the smoke slow and steady and John inhaled the wavering pale line, growing lightheaded as he took it in. It had been a long time since his chest had been filled with something other than air. 

When he took all that he could, John tipped his head back and let go of everything in his chest. He settled back against the headboard and smiled. He relaxed in the embrace of the ropes, secure in their hold. He closed his eyes as Sherlock touched his face, fingertips soft against his lips. Then Sherlock’s hand took him completely, sealing his mouth shut. 

“I’ve been wanting to try something with you again,” Sherlock said. “But you can’t move. Can you manage that?”

John glared at him, then nodded, wondering what else Sherlock would come up with. Sherlock took his hand away and kissed him. 

Sherlock controlled the kiss, pulling back when John leaned forward, leaving him hungry. John couldn’t tell if Sherlock was being strict or tentative, and Sherlock’s face betrayed nothing. John strained forward, not meaning to ignore Sherlock’s command, just desperate to keep the connection of lips and tongue. Sherlock pulled back and covered John’s mouth once more.

Sherlock smiled, but when he spoke he was breathless. “I’m starting to think that you are incapable of following orders at all.” 

John shook his head, trying to escape Sherlock’s hand. He growled against Sherlock’s fingers. He was more than capable of following orders, he wanted to say. But right now, having tasted Sherlock mouth, and with the weight of Sherlock keeping him in place, and the hand pressed hard against his mouth, he was having an impossible time focusing on anything at all. 

“One last try.” Sherlock tapped his finger against John’s forehead. “When I pull away, not an inch, and not one word from you. Do you understand?”

John nodded, aching for it. If he hadn’t been bound, his hands would be in Sherlock’s hair, his kiss would more than match, he would leave a mark. He kept silent when Sherlock pulled his hand away and kept his promise. 

“Close your eyes,” Sherlock said. 

John waited, his heart pounding. He waited, needing to be touched wherever Sherlock’s fingers would travel. He waited, eyes closed, perfectly still and quiet, and burned inside.

When Sherlock kissed him, John wasn’t ready for it. He opened his eyes and stole a glance, expecting to see Sherlock staring back at him, but Sherlock’s eyes were closed and he seemed lost in the kiss. John gasped as Sherlock pushed him against the headboard, one hand locked tight in his hair, the other pinning him in place. There would be marks from this, bitten lips and bruises. 

John moaned against Sherlock’s mouth, aching to pull him closer and bury his hands in Sherlock’s dark hair to keep him from pulling away. He could go on like this, until the sun came up, but Sherlock it seemed, would not. 

Sherlock ended the kiss and sat back. He touched his mouth again where John had bitten him. John stared at the long burnt out cigarette, then at the clock. 4:20 AM.

John blinked, dazed by it all, unable to form the words he wanted to say and uncomfortable in the silence. After a few minutes Sherlock seemed to pull himself from his thoughts and began to gather up his things.

“Thank you,” John said. The words seemed simple and obvious. 

Sherlock nodded.

“It would be good if we could-” John paused. He looked past Sherlock to the heavy curtains that no longer blocked out the street light, and the long, plastered-over crack across the ceiling, and the wardrobe door that never closed all the way. “Or maybe you could just know that it would be alright. If you wanted to kiss me again.”

Sherlock watched him for a while then he nodded and started to untie the knots. 

“It’s only-” John looked at the clock again. “4:25. We could go one more round. One more cigarette. If you wanted to.”

Sherlock buried his hands deep in the pockets of his dressing gown, then one by one he placed his collection of things back onto the bedside table. 

“I’d like to kiss you again, though.” Sherlock said. “Will you do this for me?” Sherlock pulled a cigarette from the pack. 

John leaned back, ready for it now.

“Yes."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the best betas in the world: [duh_i_read](http://archiveofourown.org/users/duh_i_write/pseuds/duh_i_read) who points out the things I miss, and [lady_t_220](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_T_220) who ALWAYS makes me do it right.
> 
> Inspired by the following kink meme:  
> [Sherlock & John Shotgunning](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/19351.html?thread=117101975#t117101975)
> 
> Thank you for reading! Please leave a comment if the mood takes you!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [smoke screens (plausible deniability)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6569233) by [SincerelyChaos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SincerelyChaos/pseuds/SincerelyChaos)




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